Page 24 of Falling for Mindy

KYLE

Everything was going really well. The fact was, a lot of the coursework on the internship was submitted online, and I could check it without doing face to face contact beyond the meetings twice weekly. It gave me a degree of removal from the interns, especially Melinda Sayers, that I found useful.

I knew from her observation questions that she was completing her volunteer time constructively and applying her subject knowledge to identify the ideologies that work against these women. She was seeing systemic oppression in action, in practical life, and that would give her new insight for her professional practice. I was satisfied that she was doing well in the internship and didn’t have much to discuss in the coming meeting with her.

Still, I’d prepared items we needed to cover on a list as well as coaching myself mentally to stay focused and not get distracted. And not to stand anywhere near her when she was at the door, because I had been haunted all week by the memory of her falling into my chest. It had shaken me, and I’d done a hell of a lot of soul searching, not to mention a great deal of extra time at the gym to sort things out. I was clear in my mind about what had to be done, and what was impossible. I felt pretty calm and businesslike when it was time to meet with her.

I was doing great until the clock ticked to six minutes past the time she was supposed to be at my office. That seemed unusual, out of character. She was early for class every session and had been early for our appointments as well. I decided to give her until ten after before I counted her tardy. The internship was specific about punctuality in meetings and turning in assignments by deadline. I knew it would reflect poorly on her performance if she made a habit of being late.

Just before the ten minutes were up, she came in the door, looking flustered and in a rush. She had her bag, and her hands were full. Her face was flushed, and she was breathing hard. She didn’t just look hurried, she looked upset.

“I’m so sorry, I know I’m late. It won’t happen again. I apologize—I—” she broke off, trying to catch her breath.

Before I made a conscious decision to go to her, I was on my feet and around my desk. I took the papers and phone and keys from her hands and set them on my desk. I took her bag and put it down. Then I set my hands on her shoulders and looked in her eyes.

“It’s okay. It’s fine. As long as you’re okay,” I said, my voice sounding unlike my own, concern obvious in my words, in the gesture of taking her by the shoulders. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m fine. Really. I’m just sorry I’m late. I didn’t mean to stay so long at the shelter. Time got away from me and I—” she took a shuddering breath and swallowed hard.

She was fighting back a sob. Her eyes were shining with unshed tears. I wanted to fold her into my arms and hold her against my chest and stroke her hair. Her hair was loose on her shoulders, a gleaming cloud of pale gold that fell like spun silk across my fingers where I held her. I swallowed hard, aware of how my own heart was racing.

“Take a deep breath. It’s okay,” I said, my voice soothing, instinctively trying to comfort her. She nodded and took a long breath. “Breathe,” I said again, and repeated it. Every time I said it, we both took a deep breath in sync with one another. “Breathe.”

After a few deep breaths, she seemed calmer, steadier. She was breathing more normally, and she didn’t look like she was about to cry any longer. Something loosened in my chest, an ache that seemed tied to the sight of her looking sad or frightened. As if how I felt was connected to how she felt, some sort of feedback loop.

I was breathing more easily too as a result. My hands were still on her shoulders, but she had taken a step in toward me at some point, so we were closer now. No longer at arm’s length. My hands held her upper arms now, in a strange posture that made it seem like I was in the process of very slowly pulling her into my arms. It would have been such a relief to hold her, to be allowed to comfort her that way. I consciously took a half step back, and cleared my throat, as I put more space between us intentionally.

She was looking at me, clear-eyed and serious as I was used to seeing her, but with something in her gaze, some expression I couldn’t identify. I took another step back and dropped my hands, put them in my pockets because I didn’t know what to do with them. I moved behind my desk to place that barrier between us. I opened a bottle of water and took a drink, trying to collect myself. Then I took another bottle from the small refrigerator and offered it to her.

“What had you so flustered, Ms. Sayers?” I asked.

“Everyone calls me Mindy,” she said, and when I didn’t respond, didn’t call her Mindy or offer her my first name, she took another drink of water and then continued.

“At the job center, I’ve been working with a woman named Alicia. I mentioned her in my reflection that I submitted on Friday. She really struck a chord with me. We hit it off the first time we met, and she’s been through so much. I think I need to talk about it with someone, because she’s really been on my mind. If anything’s bothering me, I usually tell Katie, my sister, but with the confidentiality of this work, I haven’t been able to do that. At least I can discuss it with you. Maybe you can help me figure out what to do.”

“That’s what these meetings are for. I’m here to mentor you during your internship. We can talk about this client’s case if it’s helpful to you,” I said, “but as for what you can do, I can tell you at this point, given your capacity as an intern, there is very little you are qualified for. You’re not her caseworker or her therapist. And it’s very unadvisable to think of yourself as her friend. I know it’s difficult to distance yourself, especially when many of the clients have had such traumatic experiences and your heart goes out to them. This is one of the trickiest parts of working with a facility for domestic violence survivors. You want to help, and you care very much, but you have to hold a boundary. It can be very challenging even for an experienced social worker,” I told her.

She went on to tell me about this Alicia woman and her very sad and, unfortunately, not uncommon story. She’d been married to an abusive alcoholic and gotten pregnant. Like most women in those situations, they look at the baby as hope, a new beginning.

It’s almost always not the case. In the end, the woman’s husband beat her, she suffered a miscarriage and had finally had enough and pressed charges. He’d gone to jail for a little while and when he got out, he’d started stalking her.

“She didn’t get the police involved again?” I asked, even though I knew the likelihood of a domestic abuser obeying a restraining order.

“She did try again, but nothing stopped him. She left in the middle of the night. Left everything and just came to Berkeley to the shelter. Alicia’s been running from him for almost a year now. She was happy in San Francisco and starting to rebuild her life. She was going to be a dental assistant, is what she said. But he won’t let her get away. She’s been here two months. She lived there for a while, and then she’s gotten her own place. She keeps thinking she sees him. She can’t sleep, her therapist put her on anti-anxiety meds, but she’s convinced that he’s going to find her.”

“Has she seen any indications that he’s found her?” I inquired.

“She thinks she has. She said she ignored a lot of warning signs in San Francisco, like at first, she was finding ads, like print ads and coupons and stuff for his favorite beer near where she took classes, but that could be a coincidence. Then it was flowers on her doorstep, notes in her mailbox in her building, and it wasn’t until she found the first note that she knew he was back. She met him and asked him to leave her alone, but he said she belonged to him. It just makes me sick. He thinks he owns her, and that he can just use her and hurt her and control her—why would anyone do that?“

“Some men are like that,” I said. “It’s not a good answer. But they think they have the right, they’re entitled to take whatever they want, and no one else, especially women, are fully human or have feelings that matter. That’s the patriarchy for you.”

“Exactly. But I’m worried about her. The therapist thinks it’s just anxiety, it’s okay, just take a pill and get some sleep. But what if Alicia’s right? What if he’s coming for her and this time he kills her?” she said urgently.

I had to look at her then and see every line of concern and fear in her face.

“Then you stay the hell out of it,” I said, before I could stop myself. I cleared my throat, seeing she was taken aback. “I apologize. What I should have said was, as a student at this university and an intern, you’re not in a position to intervene, and I would be remiss as your advisor if I failed to tell you to distance yourself from a potentially dangerous situation.” I corrected.

I wanted Mindy as far away from this situation as possible. In fact, if I could have in any ethical or practical way, forbidden her to go back to the job center and women’s shelter, I would have done it on the spot. Mindy blinked at me, as if waiting for me to say more.

---